by Thomas Weedman You see the sea of mourners bundled in black fill the small Mission Basilica for the evening wake. Extended family and familiar faces, A to Zed, flow from the past like shivery spindrift. You pray not all of them come though, not him. Not again. Please, not…
by Annh Browder My mama always said that flies were the first sign that something had died. When autumn came and our garden would die, flies would soon follow. They would lay their eggs in the dead plants’ husks, and, eventually, those eggs would hatch. I would often watch them…
by Andrew Furst it strikes me how people who want to stay the same have to change so much. so much, that the tides seem to move with them, a busy kind of inertia. i’ve seen them happy, i’m sure of it. cleaning their gutters and mowing their lawns. savoring…